


Crash at Mine

by thinlizzy2



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Nesting, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-08-10 06:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20130523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/pseuds/thinlizzy2
Summary: The days and weeks and months following the lack-of-end of the world are the happiest that Crowley has ever known.  He's got his angel, his freedom and the whole damn world.  But because it's the world, it can never be entirely perfect and there's just one little problem that he can't seem to let go of...





	Crash at Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meilan_Firaga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/gifts).

So averting the end of the world had been bloody _brilliant_.

Sure, there had been rough moments. Crowley still shuddered, just a little, when he remembered finding Aziraphale's bookshop in flames. And then there had been the whole being sure they were both going to die horribly at any given moment thing. That hadn't been quite his cup of tea. But the bit where he and his angel had basically told the entire fucking population of Heaven and Hell to collectively eat a bag of dicks and then saved the whole stinking Earth and got away with it had been pretty awesome, he had to admit. And what had come after - lunch at the Ritz, the soft blush on Aziraphale's face when he had finally cottoned on, the feel of Aziraphale writhing underneath him when Crowley had miracled away their clothes and pressed him down into the mattress - all of that had been nothing short of perfect.

But then the world had gone on. And because it was the world, the perfect couldn't stay.

Although things were still pretty damn good. Aziraphale still went in to his shop every day. But now, after he turned the sign around to closed every evening, he came back to Crowley. They talked, listened to music, read and went to the theatre. They went out to eat, or rather Aziraphale ate and Crowley picked at whatever was in front of him and unabashedly stared as he tried to figure out how Aziraphale could make the simple act of swallowing a bite of salmon belly so damn erotic. They drank ridiculously good wine and spirits and more often than not the nights ended with Aziraphale happily making the requisite bit of effort that got him hot and squirming and delicious under Crowley's touch. And it was the best that Crowley had ever had, the happiest he'd been since even before he fell; it was so very close to being exactly right.

Except there was no nest.

He tried to tell himself it was a stupid thing to fixate on. He and Aziraphale hadn't even formally had the moving-in-together talk yet. Which was kind of ironic, as creating the concept of awkward talks about moving in together had been some of Crowley's best work when he was still employed by Hell. But they'd skipped all that, or else they weren't there yet, and so Crowley simply gritted his teeth, paced around his flat every evening between 5:15 and 5:45 and hoped that any minute now Aziraphale would come home, hang up his coat and ask, with a slightly confused air, if dear Crowley was quite all right.

And yes, so far Aziraphale had done just that, every evening. But Crowley had nothing to ensure that that was going to continue. Nothing like a nest.

An angel's nest _meant_ something. Crowley remembered that from when he had been an angel; they were important. Angels didn't sleep, but their nests were where they rested. They were a marker, a declaration. _This, and nowhere else, is my home._

Aziraphale had never even mentioned building a nest in Crowley's flat.

Crowley had tried to indicate that he'd be okay with it. He'd moved some things out of the way, cleared space. And Aziraphale had filled that space with various nonsense: a cabinet full of painted teacups, a collection of excessively cozy slippers, a breadmaker and an ice-cream maker and a fucking _lemon zester_ that Crowley had spent a ridiculous amount of time contemplating. Crowley's bed was now a riot of soft and fuzzy cashmere blankets, lavender sachets and frilly throw pillows and he would have been fine with that, honestly, if only right beside that bed there had been a nest.

But there wasn't.

For the most part he took out his frustration on the plants. Although that didn't work as well as it used to. He suspected Aziraphale might be soothing them when he wasn't around.

It had been at dinner at a charming little Italian place in Soho that the horrible idea had first occurred to him. Aziraphale had got a tiny dab of tiramisu on the end of his nose, and Crowley had been looking forward to leaning over and licking it away when Aziraphale had smiled at him with utter contentment and he'd wondered, not for the first time, how any angel could possibly be so happy without a nest to call his own. And then he had realized.

Aziraphale must have a nest _somewhere else_.

It was the only explanation that made any sense. Aziraphale kept his nest in what he considered to be his true home, the home he kept in reserve for when things inevitably went tits-up with Crowley, the home he was planning to go back to someday. And so Crowley had tossed a napkin at him and told him to wipe his face, declined the cheese plate and left a miserable tip. He'd stewed in the car all the way home and had seriously contemplated taking Aziraphale rough and hard right in his back seat, in one of the ways that ingenious humans had devised to turn sex into sex into half a punishment or a brand of ownership. But then he'd seen the angel watching him with undisguised concern and he had to face the fact that he wasn't really even angry. 

He was hurt.

The idea had stayed with him for weeks. Where could Aziraphale's nest be? The bookstore was the obvious choice, but Crowley visited him there pretty regularly and he'd never seen a nest. Aziraphale had called various other places home over the years, but all of those were gone or unrecognizable now. It wasn't in Heaven; Crowley was at least certain of that.

Then Aziraphale had come home one day with a worried crease on his face. He was fairly sure that the flat above the shop had rats, he said. Which of course were dear little things and beautiful in their own ways, but they did like to chew and if they came downstairs his precious books would be in danger. But he really didn't want to harm them, so... Crowley had watched his mouth move as he prevaricated over what to do, but he barely heard a word.

The flat above the bookshop. Aziraphale's flat. Of course.

He had to see it. There was no question of that. Crowley was a fucking expert in pain and there was no way in Heaven, Hell or Earth that he could _not_ force himself to look at Aziraphale's nest, in all its stupid feathery roundness, and confront the irrefutable evidence that even after everything they'd been through he still wasn't good enough to build a future around.

He lay on his back that night, on top of all of Aziraphale's ridiculous bed linens. He spread his legs, pulled Aziraphale on top of him and whispered _please_. The angel had been surprised; it wasn't their usual arrangement. But flexible arrangements were pretty much the backbone of their relationship and so he'd risen to the occasion. Crowley had grabbed handfuls of Aziraphale's arse, pushed him in deeper, wanted even more. He wished he could take all of Aziraphale inside of him, keep him close and let him build his damn nest right in Crowley's rib cage. He groaned when Aziraphale came, warmth and wetness from his body flooding into Crowley. It was something from the angel that was his now. Something he could keep. That was the thought that set off his own climax.

"Are you quite all right, my dear?" Aziraphale's arms were warm and soft around Crowley, and he so wanted to believe he was safe in them. "You've seemed a bit... off lately."

"I'm a demon," Crowley reminded him, trying to inject a bit of nonchalance into his voice. "I'm meant to be off."

"Yes, but-" The care in Aziraphale's voice nearly undid him. He went to sleep to avoid hearing any more of it.

Aziraphale was gone by the time Crowley awoke. That wasn't unusual; the angel kept far more structured hours than Crowley did, and also never slept. But he couldn't have been gone long; Crowley could smell the remnants of his french toast breakfast in the air. He inhaled the lingering traces of cinnamon, nutmeg and Aziraphale, and then set out to break his own heart. 

Sneaking up the outdoor staircase to the flat above Aziraphale's shop was a simple enough affair for a demons with thousands of years of subterfuge experience under his belt. And getting in was even easier. He'd brought tools for picking human locks and far more intricate ones for helping to disable angelic wards, but none of that had been necessary. Aziraphale - that stupid, trusting, beautiful idiot - had left the doors unlocked. And Crowley's heart swelled in spite of himself.

He flicked on the lights.

There was nothing there. Crowley blinked, stunned. He'd been so certain. But aside from a few discarded odds and ends - a scrap of paper here, a rusty teaspoon there - the flat was entirely abandoned. Crowley wandered from room to room. There was nothing in the sitting room, nothing in what must have been intended as an office. A thin layer of dust had formed on many of the surfaces; there was grime on the windows. Wherever Aziraphale's nest was, it wasn't here.

"Crowley?" 

Crowley spun around, only to be confronted with Aziraphale's confused face. The angel was holding a stack of live rat traps and wearing a befuddled expression. "What are you doing here, my dear?"

Crowley's mind ran through dozens of possible explanations for his presence in the flat. He was a naturally skilled liar, and Aziraphale wasn't known for having a suspicious mind. It would have been simple enough to come up with something that the angel would have believed, but what came out of his mouth was something entirely different. "Where's the nest, angel?"

Aziraphale blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

_"Your nest!"_ He couldn't hold back a little hiss. "Your heart, your home, your hearth, your fire hazard! Where the hell is it?"

Aziraphale stared at him. "Well... it's at home, of course.

"Right!" Crowley snapped. "And where the bloody hell is that?"

"At _home_," Aziraphale repeated. "In our flat. Where we live."

Crowley scoffed. "I might not be the happy homemaker type, angel, but I'm pretty sure I'd have seen a big old bowl of twigs and straw and feathers hanging about behind the settee. Try again."

He wasn't sure what kind of reaction he should have expected from Aziraphale, but soft laughter certainly wasn't it. Still, that was what he got. "Crowley, you haven't been an angel for a very long time, my darling. We don't get our nest-making supplies from forests and fields anymore."

What did that have to do with anything? "So where do you get them from?"

"Marks and Spencer's, mostly. John Lewis. Antique markets, of course. Lately, I must admit I've been rather enjoying Etsy."

Crowley felt a light starting to dawn. "No twigs?"

Aziraphale shook his head. "No straw."

Crowley cast his mind back to the flat that he had left in such a fit of pique that morning. Aziraphale's plush pillows and fuzzy blankets, the warm colours of his beloved belongings softening the sharp edges of Crowley's home, the gentle fragrance of his teas and soaps and books - they filled every room. He'd brought in things that made the flat warm, safe, _home-like_. "Oh."

Aziraphale reached up and kissed him on the jaw. "Yes. Oh."

Crowley allowed himself to be led back down the stairs to the bookshop and took the cup of tea that Aziraphale offered with an unusual amount of gratitude. Aziraphale regarded him sadly. "Crowley, dear, why would you ever imagine that I would want to nest anywhere but with you?"

Crowley stirred the tea like he was punishing it. "I don't know. We never actually talked about it. Moving in together, I mean. So I just thought..."

"I hadn't really thought we needed to talk about it." Aziraphale's brows furrowed. "But you're not wrong. So. I would like to move in. How do you you feel about that?"

Crowley wasn't entirely able to hold back his smile. "Okay. That sounds good."

Aziraphale beamed back at him. "You're certain? You don't want to think it over, give the issue a bit of gravitas?"

"Nah." Crowley could feel himself grinning like a loon. "It makes sense. I mean, your nest is already there and all."

"Yes. It is." Aziraphale kissed him softly again.

But Crowley wasn't going to let him get away with just that. He grabbed Aziraphale's face with both hands and deepened the kiss, pouring all of his relief and joy into his touch. "We should be at home too. I really, really want to shag you now, and you don't have a single stick of furniture upstairs."

Aziraphale laughed, but he allowed Crowley to flip the shop's sign around to 'Closed'. Crowley didn't bother to remind him to lock the upstairs flat; there was nothing up there worth protecting anyway. He simply slid an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders, and led him back to the place that had been home all along.


End file.
